
Book i/ii 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSrC 



VISION 




<Lai\f!//. 



"H.M.C^.! dwell Co. 
New York""' Boston. 



5IOf: 



:> /' 



Library of Cona*"*** 

''v.'j Copies R.ECtivEO 
SEP 24 1900 

C«pyngM «ntTy 
SECOND COPY. 

Ot!iv«f«d \*\ 

OHOti^ DIVISION, 

OCT 12 1900 



,^0 



Copyright, igoo 
By H. M. Caldwell Co. 



The Vision of Sir Launfal 



The Vision of Sir Launfal 

PRELUDE TO PART FIRST 

/^VER his keys the musing organ- 
^^ ist, 

Beginning doubtfully and far away, 
First lets his fingers wander as they 
list, 
And builds a bridge from Dream- 
land for his lay ; 
Then, as the touch of his loved instru- 
ment 
Gives hope and fervour, nearer draws 
his theme, 
P'irst guessed by faint auroral flushes 
sent 
Along the wavering vista of his 
dream. 

3 



^ The Vision of Sir Launfal 

Not only around our infancy 

Doth heaven with all its splendours 

lie ; 
Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, 
We Sinais climb and know it not ; 

Over our manhood bend the skies ; 

Against our fallen and traitor lives 
The great winds utter prophecies ; 

With our faint hearts the mountain 
strives ; 
Its arms outstretched, the druid wood 

Waits with its benedicite; 
And to our age's drowsy blood 

Still shouts the inspiring sea. 

fEarth gets its price for what Earth 
gives us ; 
The beggar is taxed for a corner to 
die in. 



The Vision of Sir Launfal ^ 

The priest hath his fee who comes and 
shrives us, 
We bargain for the graves we lie in ; 
At the Devil's booth are all things 

sold, 
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of 
gold; 
For a cap and bells our lives we pay, 
Bubbles we earn with a whole soul's 
tasking : 
'Tis heaven alone that is given 
away. 
'Tis only God may be had for the 

asking ; 
There is no price set on the lavish 

summer; 
And June may be had by the poorest 

comer. 
And what is so rare as a day in June ? 
Then, if ever, come perfect days ; 
5 



^ The Vision o£ Sir Launfal 

Then Heaven tries the earth if it be 
in tune, 
And over it softly her warm ear 
lays : 
Whether we look, or whether we 

listen. 
We hear life murmur, or see it 

glisten; 
Every clod feels a stir of might, 

An instinct within it that reaches 
and towers. 
And, grasping blindly above it for 
light. 
Climbs to a soul in grass and 
flowers ; 
The flush of life may well be seen 

Thrilling back over hills and valleys ; 
The cowslip startles in meadows green, 
The buttercup catches the sun in its 
chalice, 

6 



The Vision of Sir Launfal ^ 

And there's never a leaf or a blade too 

mean 
To be some happy creature's palace j i 
The little bird sits at his door in the; 

sun, 
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, 
And lets his illumined being o'errun 
With the deluge of summer it re- 
ceives ; 
His mate feels the eggs beneath her 

wings. 
And the heart in her dumb breast 

flutters and sings ; 
He sings to the wide world, and she to 

her nest, — 
In the nice ear of Nature which song 

is the best ? 

Now is the high-tide of the year. 

And whatever of life hath ebbed away 
7 



^ The Vision of Sir Launfal 

Comes flooding back, with a ripply 
cheer, 
Into every bare inlet and creek and 
bay; 

Now the heart is so full that a drop 
overfills it. 

We are happy now because God so 
wills it ; 

No matter how barren the past may 
have been, 

'Tis enough for us now that the leaves 
are green ; 

We sit in the warm shade and feel 
right well 

How the sap creeps up and the blos- 
soms swell ; 

We may shut our eyes, but we cannot 
help knowing 

That skies are clear and grass is grow- 
ing i 

8 



The Vision of Sir Launfal 



«-&' 



The breeze comes whispering in our ear, 

That dandelions are blossoming near, 

That maize has sprouted, that 

streams are flowing, 
That the river is bluer than the sky. 
That the robin is plastering his house 

hard by ; 
And if the breeze kept the good news 

back. 
For other couriers we should not lack ; 
We could guess it all by yon heifer's 

lowing, — 
And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer. 
Warmed with the new wine of the year. 
Tells all in his lusty crowing ! 

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not 

how ; 
Everything is happy now. 

Everything is upward striving ; 
9 



■^ The Vision of Sir Launfal 

'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true 
As for grass to be green or skies to be 
blue, — 
'Tis the natural way of living: 
Who knows whither the clouds have 
fled? 
In the unscarred heaven they leave 
no wake ; 
And the eyes forget the tears they have 
shed, 
The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; 
The soul partakes the season's youth. 
And the sulphurous rifts of passion 
and woe 
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and 
smooth, 
Like burnt-out craters healed with 
snow. 
What wonder if Sir Launfal now 
Remembered the keeping of his vow ? 



The Vision of Sir Launfal 



PART FIRST 



" My golden spurs now bring to me, 

And bring to me my richest mail, 
For to-morrow I go over land and 
sea 
In search of the Holy Grail ; 
Shall never a bed for me be spread. 
Nor shall a pillow be under my head. 
Till I begin my vow to keep ; 
Here on the rushes will I sleep. 
And perchance there may come a vis- 
ion true 
Ere day create the world anew." 

Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew 

dim, 
Slumber fell like a cloud on him. 
And into his soul the vision flew. 
II 



^ The Vision of Sir Launfal 



II. 



The crows flapped over by twos and 

threes, 
In the pool drowsed the cattle up to 

their knees, 
The birds sang as if it were 
The one day of summer in all the 

year. 
And the very leaves seemed to sing on 

the trees : 
The castle alone in the landscape lay 
Like an outpost of winter, dull and 

gray; 
'Twas the proudest hall in the North 

Countree, 
And never its gates might opened be, 
Save to lord or lady of high degree ; 
Summer besieged it on every side, 

12 



The Vision of Sir Launfal ^ 

But the chuilish stone her assauhs 

defied ; 
She could not scale the chilly wall, 
Though around it for leagues her 

pavilions tall 
Stretched left and right, 
Over the hills and out of sight ; 
Green and broad was every tent. 
And out of each a murmur went 
Till the breeze fell off at night. 

III. 

The drawbridge dropped with a surly 

clang, 
And through the dark arch a charger 

sprang. 
Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight, 
In his gilded mail, that flamed so 

bright 

13 



^ The Vision of Sir Launfal 

It seemed the dark castle had gathered all 
Those shafts the fierce sun had shot 
over its wall 
In his siege of three hundred sum- 
mers long, 
And, binding them all in one blazing 
sheaf, 
Had cast them forth : so young and 
strong, 
And lightsome as a locust-leaf. 
Sir Launfal flashed forth in his un- 

scarred mail, 
To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail. 

IV. 

It was morning on hill and stream 
and tree. 
And morning in the young knight's 
heart ; 

14 



The Vision of Sir Launfal ^ 

Only the castle moodily 

Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free. 

And gloomed by itself apart ; 
The season brimmed all other things up 
Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's 
cup. 

V. 

As Sir Launfal made morn through the 
darksome gate, 
He was ware of a leper, crouched by 
the same. 
Who begged with his hand and moaned 
as he sate ; 
And a loathing over Sir Launfal 
came; 
The sunshine went out of his soul with 
a thrill, 
The flesh 'neath his armour did 
shrink and crawl, 
15 



■^ The Vision of Sir Launfal 

And midway its leap his heart stood 
still 
Like a frozen waterfall •, 

For this man, so foul and bent of 
stature, 

Rasped harshly against his dainty nature, 

And seemed the one blot on the sum- 
mer morn, — 

So he tossed him a piece of gold in 
scorn. 

VI. 

The leper raised not the gold from the 

dust : 
" Better to me the poor man's crust. 
Better the blessing of the poor. 
Though I turn me empty from his 

door ; 
That is no true alms which the hand 

can hold ; 

i6 



The Vision of Sir Launfal 



j^x/ 



He gives nothing but worthless gold 
Who gives from a sense of duty ; 

But he who gives but a slender mite, 

And gives to that which is out of 
sight, 
That thread of the all-sustaining 
Beauty 

Which runs through all and doth all 
unite, — 

The hand cannot clasp the whole of 
his alms. 

The heart outstretches its eager palms. 

For a god goes with it and makes it 
store 

To the soul that was starving in dark- 
ness before.** . 



17 



^ The Vision of Sir Launfal 



PRELUDE TO PART SECOND 

Down swept the chill wind from the 
mountain peak, 
From the snow five thousand sum- 
mers old J 
On open wold and hill-top bleak 

It had gathered all the cold, 
And whirled it like sleet on the wan- 
derer's cheek ; 
It carried a shiver everywhere 
From the unleafed boughs and pas- 
tures bare ; 
The little brook heard and built a roof 
'Neath which he could house him win- 
ter-proof; 
All night by the white stars' frosty gleams 
He groined his arches and matched his 
beams ; 

i8 



The Vision of Sir Launfal ^ 

Slender and clear were his crystal spars 
As the lashes of light that trim the 

stars : 
He sculptured every summer delight 
In his halls and chambers out of sight ; 
Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt 
Down through a frost-leaved forest- 
crypt, 
Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed 

trees 
Bending to counterfeit a breeze ; 
Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew 
But silvery mosses that downward 

grew; 
Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief 
With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf; 
Sometimes it was simply smooth and 

clear 
For the gladness of heaven to shine 
through, and here 
19 



^ The Vision of Sir Launfal 

He had caught the nodding hulrush-tops 

And hung them thickly with diamond 
drops, 

Which crystalled the beams of moon 
and sun, 

And made a star of e\'erv one : 

No mortal builder's most rare device 

Could match this winter-palace of ice ; 

'Twas as if every image that mirrored 
lay 

In his depths serene through the sum- 
mer dav. 

Each flitting shadow of earth and skv. 
Lest the happy model should be lost, 

Had been mimicked in fairy masonry 
Bv the elfin builders of the frost. 

Within the hall are song and laughter, 
The cheeks oi' Christmas glow red 
and jolly, 

20 



The Vision of Sir Launfal ^ 

And sprouting is every corbel and rafter 
With Hghtsome green of ivy and 
holly ; 
Through the deep gulf of the chimney 

wide 
Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide ; 
The broad flame-pennons droop and 
flap 
And belly and tug as a flag in the 
wind : 
Like a locust shrills the imprisoned 
sap, 
Hunted to death in its galleries 
blind ; 
And swift little troops of silent sparks, 
Now pausing, now scattering away 
as in fear. 
Go threading the soot-forest's tangled 
darks 
Like herds of startled deer. 



-^ The Vision ot Sir L;iuntal 

But the wind without umj; eager .iiui 

sh:irp, 
Ot" Sir Launfal's gr.iv hair it niakes a 
harp. 

And rattles and wrings 
The icv strings. 
Singing in drean- monotone, 
A Christmas carol or" its own. 
Whose burden still, as he might 

guess. 
Was — ^' Shelterless, shelterless, shel- 
terless ! *' 
The \ oice of the seneschal Hared like 

a torch 
As he shouted the wanderer awav tVom 

the porch. 
And he sat in the gatewav and saw all 
night 
The great hall-hre so cheerv and 
bold, 



The Vision of Sir Launfal {^ 

Through the window-slits of the 
castle old, 
Built out its piers of ruddy light 
Against the drift of the cold. 



23 



^ The Vision of Sir Laiintal 



PART SECOND 



There was never a leaf on bush or 

tree, 
The bare boughs rattled shudderingly ; 
The river was dumb and could not 

speak, 
For the frost's swift shuttles its 

shroud had spun ; 
A single crow on the tree-top bleak 
From his shining feathers shed off 

the cold sun ; 
Again it was morning, but shrunk and 

cold, 
As if her veins were sapless and old. 
And she rose up decrepitly 
For a last dim look at earth and 

sea. 

24 



The Vision of Sir Launfal {^ 

II. 

Sir Launfal turned from his own hard 

gate, 
For another heir in his earldom sate ; 
An old, bent man, worn out and frail. 
He came back from seeking the Holy 

Grail ; 
Little he recked of his earldom's loss. 
No more on his surcoat was blazoned 

the cross. 
But deep in his soul the sign he wore, 
The badge of the suffering and the poor. 

III. 

Sir Launfal's raiment thin and spare 
Was idle mail 'gainst the barbed air, 
P^or it was just at the Christmas time ; 
So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier 
clime, 

25 



-^ The Vision of Sir Launfal 

And sought for a shelter from cold and 

snow 
In the light and warmth of long ago ; 
He sees the snake-like caravan crawl 
O'er the edge of the desert, black and 

small, 
Then nearer and nearer, till one by 

one 
He can count the camels in the sun, 
As over the red-hot sands they pass 
To where, in its slender necklace of 

grass, 
The little spring laughed and leapt in 

the shade, 
And with its own self like an infant 

plaved, 
And waved its signal of palms. 



26 



The Vision of Sir Launfal ^ 

IV. 

" For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an 

alms ; " — 
The happy camels may reach the 

spring, 
But Sir Launfal sees naught save the 

grewsome thing, 
The leper, lank as the rain-blanched 

bone. 
That cowers beside him, a thing as lone 
And white as the ice-isles of Northern 

seas 
In the desolate horror of his disease. 



And Sir Launfal said, — "I behold in 

thee 
An image of Him who died on the 

tree ; 

27 



■^ The Vision of Sir Launfal 

Thou also hast had thy crown of 

thorns, — 
Thou also hast had the world's buffets 

and scorns, — 
And to thy life were not denied 
The wounds in the hands and feet and 

side : 
Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me ; 
Behold, through him, I give to thee ! " 



VI. 



Then the soul of the leper stood up in 
his eyes 
And looked at Sir Launfal, and 
straightway he 
Remembered in what a haughtier guise 

He had flung an alms to leprosie. 
When he caged his young life up in 
gilded mail 

28 



The Vision of Sir Launfal ^ 

And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. 
The heart within him was ashes and 

dust ; 
He parted in twain his single crust, 
He broke the ice on the streamlet's 

brink, 
And gave the leper to eat and drink, 
'Twas a mouldy crust of coarse brown 

bread, 
'Twas water out of a wooden bowl. 
Yet with fine wheaten bread was the 

leper fed. 
And 'twas red wine he drank with 

his thirsty soul. 

VII. 

As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast 

face, 
A light shone round about the place ; 
29 



■^ The Vision of Sir Launfal 

The leper no longer crouched at his side, 
But stood before him glorified, 
Shining and tall and fair and straight 
As the pillar that stood by the Beauti- 
ful Gate, — 
Himself the Gate whereby men can 
Enter the temple of God in Man. 

VIII. 

His words were shed softer than leaves 

from the pine, 
And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows 

on the brine. 
Which mingle their softness and quiet 

in one 
With the shaggy unrest they float 

down upon ; 
And the voice that was calmer than 

silence said, 



The Vision of Sir Launfal ^ 

" Lo it is I, be not afraid ! 

In many climes, without avail. 

Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy 

Grail ; 
Behold, it is here, — this cup which thou 
Didst fill at the streamlet for me but 

now; 
This crust is my body broken for thee, 
This water His blood that died on the 

tree ; 
The Holy Supper is kept, indeed. 
In whatso we share with another's 

need ; 
Not what we give, but what we 

share, — 
For the gift without the giver is bare ; 
Who gives himself with his alms feeds 

three, — 
Himself, his hungering neighbour, and 

me. 

31 



^ The Vision of Sir Launfal 

IX. 

Sir Launfal awoke as from a svvound : — 
" The Grail in my castle here is found ! 
Hang my idle armour up on the wall, 
Let it be the spider's banquet-hall ; 
He must be fenced with stronger mail 
Who would seek and find the Holy 
Grail." 

X. 

The castle gate stands open now, 
And the wanderer is welcome to the 
hall 
As the hangbird is to the elm-tree 
bough ; 
No longer scowl the turrets tall, 
The summer's long siege at last is o'er ; 
When the first poor outcast went in at 
the door, 

32 



The Vision of Sir Launfal ^ 

She entered with him in disguise, 
And mastered the fortress by surprise ; 
There is no spot she loves so well on 

ground, 
She lingers and smiles there the whole 

year round ; 
The meanest serf on Sir LaunfaPs 

land 
Has hall and bower at his command ; 
And there's no poor man in the North 

Countree 
But is lord of the earldom as much 

as he. 



33 



The Bobolink 

\ NACREON of the meadow, 

Drunk with the joy of spring ! 
Beneath the tall pine's voiceful shadow 
I lie and drink thy jargoning ; 
My soul is full with melodies, 
One drop would overflow it. 
And send the tears into mine eyes — 
But what carest thou to know it ? 
Thy heart is free as mountain air, 
And of thy lays thou hast no care, 
Scattering them gayly everywhere, 
Happy, unconscious poet ! 

Upon a tuft of meadow grass. 
While thy loved-one tends the nest. 
Thou swayest as the breezes pass. 
Unburdening thine o'erfull breast 
35 



#4 The Bobolink 

Of the crowded songs that fill it, 
Just as joy may choose to will it. 
Lord of thy love and liberty, 
The blithest bird of merry May, 
Thou turnest thy bright eye on me, 
That says as plain as eye can say — 
" Here sit we in the sunny weather, 
I and my modest mate together ; 
Whatever your wise thoughts may be, 
Under that gloomy old pine-tree. 
We do not value them a feather." 

Now, leaving earth and me behind. 
Thou beatest up against the wind, 
Or, floating slowly down before it. 
Above thy grass-hid nest thou flutterest 
And thy bridal love-song utterest. 
Raining showers of music o'er it. 
Weary never, still thou trillest. 
Spring-gladsome lays, 
36 



The Bobolink ^ 

As of moss-rimmed water brooks 
Murmuring through pebbly nooks 
In quiet summer days. 
My heart with happiness thou fillest, 
I seem again to be a boy 
Watching thee, gay, blithesome lover, 
O'er the bending grass-tops hover, 
Quivering thy wings for joy. 
There's something in the apple-blossom, 
The greening grass and bobolink's song. 
That wakes again within my bosom 
Feelings which have slumbered long. 
As long, long years ago I wandered, 
I seem to wander even yet. 
The hours the idle schoolboy squan- 
dered. 
The man would die ere he'd forget. 

hours that frosty eld deemed wasted, 
Nodding his gray head toward my books, 

1 dearer prize the lore I tasted 

37 



^ The Bobolink 

With you, among the trees and brooks, 
Than all that I have gained since then 
From learned books or study-withered 

men. 
Nature, thy soul was one with mine, 
And, as a sister by a younger brother 
Is loved, each flowing to the other. 
Such love for me was thine. 
Or wert thou not more like a gentle 

mother 
With sympathy and loving power to 

heal. 
Against whose heart my throbbing head 

I'd lay 
And moan my childish sorrows all 

away. 
Till calm and holiness would o'er me 

steal ? 
Was not the golden sunset a dear 

friend ? 

38 



The Bobolink ^ 

Found I no kindness in the silent moon, 

And the green trees, whose tops did 
sway and bend. 

Low singing evermore their pleasant 
tune ? 

Felt I no heart in dim and solemn 
woods — 

No loved-one's voice in lonely soli- 
tudes ! 

Yes, yes ! unhoodwinked then my 
spirit's eyes, 

Blind leaders had not taught me to be 
wise. 

Dear hours ! which now again I 
over-live. 
Hearing and seeing with the ears and 

eyes 
Of childhood, ye were bees, that to the 
hive 

39 



^ The Bobolink 

Of my young heart came laden with 

rich prize, 
Gathered in fields and woods and sunny 

dells, to be 
My spirit's food in days more wintery. 
Yea, yet again ye come ! ye come ! 
And, like a child once more at home 
After long sojourning in alien climes, 
I lie upon my mother's breast. 
Feeling the blessedness of rest, 
And dwelling in the light of other times, 

O ye whose living is not Z,//>, 
Whose dying is but death, 
Long, empty toil and petty strife. 
Rounded with loss of breath ! 
Go, look on Nature's countenance. 
Drink in the blessing of her glance ; 
Look on the sunset, hear the wind. 
The cataract, the awful thunder; 
40 



The Bobolink ^ 

Go, worship by the sea ; 

Then, and then only, shall ye find, 

With ever growing wonder, 

Man is not all in all to ye ; 

Go with a meek and humble soul, 

Then shall the scales of self unroll 

From ofF your eyes — the weary packs 

Drop from your heavy-laden backs ; 

And ye shall see. 

With reverent and hopeful eyes, 

Glowing with new-born energies, 

How great a thing it is to be ! 



41 



My Love 

^^JOT as all other women are 

Is she that to my soul is dear ; 
Her glorious fancies come from far 
Beneath the silver evening-star, 
And yet her heart is ever near. 

Great feelings hath she of her own 
Which lesser souls may never know ; 
God giveth them to her alone, 
And sweet they are as any tone 
Wherewith the wind may choose to 
blow. 

Yet in herself she dwelleth not, 
Although no home were half so fairj 
No simplest duty is forgot, 
43 



^. My Love 

Life hath no dim and lonelv spot 
That doth not in her sunshine share. 

She doeth little kindnesses, 
Which most leave undone, or despise, 
For naught that sets one heart at ease. 
And giveth happiness or peace, 
Is low-esteemed in her eves. 

She hath no scorn of common things 
And, though she seem ot other birth, 
Round us her heart entwines and clings. 
And patiently she folds her wings 
To tread the humble paths o\' earth. 

Blessing she is : God made her so. 
And deeds of week-dav holiness 
Fall from her noiseless as the snow. 
Nor hath she ever chanced to know 
That aught were easier than to bless. 
44 



My Love ^ 

She is most fair, and thereunto 
Her life doth rightly harmonise ; 
Feeling or thought that was not true 
Ne'er made less beautiful the blue 
Unclouded heaven of her eyes. 

On Nature she doth muse and brood 
With such a still and love-clear eye — 
She is so gentle and so good — 
The very flowers in the wood 
Do bless her with their sympathy. 

She is a woman : one in whom 
The spring-time of her childish years 
Hath never lost its fresh perfume, 
Though knowing well that life hath 

room 
For many blights and many tears. 

And youth in her a home will find, 
Where he may dwell eternally ; 
45 



^ My Love 

Her soul is not of that weak kind 
Which better love the life behind 
Than that which is, or is to be. 

I love her with a love as still 
As a broad river's peaceful might, 
Which, by high tower and lowly mill, 
Goes wandering at its own will. 
And yet doth ever flow aright. 

And, on its full, deep breast serene. 
Like quiet isles my duties lie ; 
It flows around them and between. 
And makes them fresh and fair and 

green. 
Sweet homes wherein to live and die. 



46 



The Beggar i 

yi BEGGAR through the world am I, 
From place to place I wander 

by;- 

Fill up my pilgrim's scrip for me, 
For Christ's sweet sake and charity ! 

A little of thy steadfastness, 
Rounded with leafy gracefulness, 
Old oak, give me — 
That the world's blasts may round me 

blow. 
And I yield gently to and fro. 
While my stout-hearted trunk below 
And firm-set roots unmoved be. 

Some of thy stern, unyielding might, 
Enduring still through day and night 
47 



#4 The Beggar 

Rude tempest-shock and withering 

blight — 
That I may keep at bay 
The changeful April sky of chance 
And the strong tide of circumstance — 
Give me old granite gray. 

Some of thy mournfulness serene, 
Some of thy never-dying green, 
Put in this scrip of mine — 
That griefs may fall like snowflakes 

light. 
And deck me in a robe of white 
Ready to be an angel bright — 
O sweetly-mournful pine. 

A little of thy merriment. 
Of thy sparkling, light content. 
Give me my cheerful brook — 
That I may still be full of glee 

48 



The Beggar ^ 

And gladsomeness, where'er I be, 
Though fickle fate hath prisoned me 
In some neglected nook. 

Ye have been very kind and good 
To me, since I've been in the wood ; 
Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart, 
But good-bye, kind friends, every one, 
I've far to go ere set of sun ; 
Of all good things I would have part, 
The day was high ere I could start, 
And so my journey's scarce begun. 

Heaven help me ! how could I for- 
get 
To beg of thee, dear violet ! 
Some of thy modesty. 
That flowers here as well, unseen. 
As if before the world thou'dst been, 
O give, to strengthen me. 
49 



The Sirens 

nr^HE sea is lonely, the seais dreary, 

The sea is restless and uneasy ; 

Thou seekest quiet, thou art weary. 

Wandering thou k no west not 

whither; — 
Our little isle is green and breezy, 
Come and rest thee ! O come hither, 
Come to this peaceful home of ours, 

Where evermore 
The low west-wind creeps panting up 
the shore 
To be at rest among the flowers ; 
Full of rest, the green moss lifts, 

As the dark waves of the sea 
Draw in and out of rocky rifts 
Calling solemnly to thee, 
SI 



#4 The Sirens 

With voices deep and hollow — 
To the shore 
Follow ! O follow ! 
To be at rest for evermore ! 

For evermore ! 
Look how the gray, old Ocean 
From the depths of his heart rejoices, 
Heaving with a gentle motion. 
When he hears our restful voices ; 
List how he sings in an undertone, 
Chiming with our melody ; 
And all sweet sounds of earth and air 
Melt into one low voice alone. 
That murmurs over the weary sea — 
And seems to sing from everywhere — 
" Here mayest thou harbour peace- 
fully. 
Here mayest thou rest from the aching 
oar; 
Turn thy curved prow ashore 
52 



And in our green isle rest for ever- 
more ! 

For evermore ! " 
And Echo half wakes in the wooded 
hill, 
And, to her heart so calm and deep, 
Murmurs over in her sleep. 
Doubtfully pausing and murmuring 
still, 

" Evermore ! " 
Thus, on Life's weary sea, 
Heareth the marinere 
Voices sweet, from far and near, 
Ever singing low and clear, 
Ever singing longingly. 

Is it not better here to be. 
Than to be toiling late and soon ? 
In the dreary night to see 
Nothing but the blood-red moon 
53 



^ The Sirens 

Go up and down into the sea ; 
Or, in the loneliness of day, 

To see the still seals only, 
Solemnly lift their faces gray. 
Making it yet more lonely ? 
Is it not better, than to hear 
Only the sliding of the wave 
Beneath the plank, and feel so near 
A cold and lonely grave, 
A restless grave, where thou shalt 
lie 
Even in death unquietly ? 
Look down beneath thy wave-worn 
bark. 
Lean over the side and see 
The leaden eye of the side-long shark 
Upturned patiently 
Ever waiting there for thee : 
Look down and see those shapeless 
forms, 

54 



The Sirens ## 

Which ever keep their dreamless 

sleep 
Far down within the gloomy deep 
And only stir themselves in storms, 
Rising like islands from beneath, 
And snorting through the angry spray, 
As the frail vessel perisheth 
In the whirls of their unwieldly play ; 

Look down ! Look down ! 
Upon the seaweed, slimy and dark. 
That waves its arms so lank and brown. 

Beckoning for thee ! 
Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark 
Into the cold depth of the sea ! 
Look down ! Look down ! 
Thus, on Life's lonely sea, 
Hcareth the marinere 
Voices sad from far and near. 
Ever singing full of fear, 
Ever singing drearfully. 
55 



^ The Si' ens 

Here all is pleasant as a dream ; 

The wind scarce shaketh down the dew, 

The green grass floweth like a stream 

Into the ocean's blue: 

Listen ! O listen ! 

Here is a gush of many streams, 

A song of many birds, 
And every wish and longing seems 
Lulled to a numbered flow of 
words — 

Listen ! O listen ! 
Here ever hum the golden bees 
Underneath full-blossomed trees, 
At once with glowing fruit and flower 

crowned ; 
The sand is so smooth, the yellow 

sand. 
That thy keel will not grate, as it 

touches the land ; 
All around, with a slumberous sound, 
56 



The Sirens ^ 

The singing waves sUde up the strand, 
And there, where the smooth wet 

pebbles be, 
The waters gurgle longingly. 
As if they fain would seek the shore. 
To be at rest from the ceaseless roar, 
To be at rest for evermore — 

For evermore. 

Thus on Life's gloomy sea, 

Heareth the marinere 

Voices sweet, far and near. 

Ever singing in his ear, 
" Here is rest and peace for thee ! " 



57 



Rhoecus 

/'^OD sends his teachers unto every 

age, 
To every clime, and every race of men, 
With revelations fitted to their growth 
And shape of mind, nor gives the realm 

of Truth 
Into the selfish rule of one sole race : 
Therefore each form of worship that 

hath swayed 
The life of man, and given it to grasp 
The master-key of knowledge, rever- 
ence. 
Enfolds some germs of goodness and of 

right; 
Else never had the eager soul, which 
loathes 

59 



-^ Rhoecus 

The slothful down of pampered igno- 
rance, 
Found in it even a moment's titful rest. 

There is an instinct in the human 

heart 
Which makes that all the fables it 

hath coined, 
To justify the reign of its belief 
And strengthen it bv beauty's right 

diyine, 
V^eil in their inner cells a mystic gift, 
Which, like the hazel twig, in faithful 

hands, 
Points surely to the hidden springs of 

truth. 
For, as in nature naught is made in 

yain, 
But all things have within their hull of 

use 

60 



Rhci^cus ^ 



A wisdom and a meaning which may 

speak 
Of spiritual secrets to the ear 
Of spirit ; so, in whatsoe'er the heart 
Hath fashioned for a solace to itself, 
To make its inspirations suit its creed. 
And from the niggard hands of false- 
hood wring 
Its needful food of truth, there ever is 
A sympathy with Nature, which re- 
veals. 
Not less than her own works, pure 

gleams of light 
And earnest parables of inward lore. 
Hear now this fairy legend of old 

Greece, 
As full of freedom, youth and beauty 

still 
As the immortal freshness of that grace 
Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze. 
6i 



^ Rh 



oecus 



A youth named Rhoecus, wandering 

in the wood, 
Saw an old oak just trembling to its 

fall, 
And feeling pity of so fair a tree. 
He propped its gray trunk with admir- 
ing care, 
And with a thoughtless footstep loitered 

on. 
But, as he turned, he heard a voice 

behind 
That murmured, " Rhoecus ! " 'Twas 

as if the leaves. 
Stirred by a passing breath, had m.ur- 

mured it, 
And, while he paused bewildered, yet 

again 
It murmured, " Rhoecus ! " softer than 

a breeze. 
He started and beheld with dizzy eyes 
62 



Rhoecus ^ 

What seemed the substance of a happy 
dream 

Stand there before him, spreading a 
warm glow 

Within the green glooms of the shad- 
owy oak. 

It seemed a woman's shape, yet all too 
fair 

To be a woman, and with eyes too 
meek 

For any that were wont to mate with 
gods. 

All naked like a goddess stood she there, 

And like a goddess all too beautiful 

To feel the guilt-born earthliness of 
shame. 

" Rhoecus, I am the Dryad of this 
tree," 

Thus she began, dropping her low- 
toned words 

63 



#4 Rhoecus 



Serene, and full, and clear, as drops 

of dew, 
" And with it I am doomed to live and 

die ; 
The rain and sunshine are my caterers. 
Nor have I other bliss than simple 

life; 
Now ask me what thou wilt, that I can 

give, 
And with a thankful joy it shall be 

thine." 

Then Rhoecus, with a flutter at the 
heart. 
Yet, by the promptings of such beauty, 

bold. 
Answered : " What is there that can 

satisfy 
The endless craving of the soul but 
love ? 

64 



Rhoecus ^ 



Give me thy love, or but the hope of 

that 
Which must be evermore my spirit's 

goal." 
After a little pause she said again, 
But with a glimpse of sadness in her 

tone, 
'^ I give it, Rhoecus, though a perilous 

gift; 
An hour before the sunset meet me 

here." 
And straightway there was nothing he 

could see 
But the green glooms beneath the 

shadowy oak. 
And not a sound came to his straining 

ears 
But the low trickling rustle of the leaves. 
And far away upon an emerald slope 
The falter of an idle shepherd's pipe. 
65 



-^ Rhoecus 



Now in those days of simpleness and 

faith, 
Men did not think that happy things 

were dreams 
Because they overstepped the narrow 

bourne 
Of likelihood, but reverently deemed 
Nothing too wondrous or too beauti- 
ful 
To be the guerdon of a daring 

heart. 
So Rhoecus made no doubt that he was 

blest, 
And all along unto the city's gate 
Earth seemed to spring beneath him as 

he walked, 
The clear, broad sky looked bluer than 

its wont. 
And he could scarce believe he had not 

wings, 

66 



Rhoecus ^ 

Such sunshine seemed to glitter through 

his veins 
Instead of blood, so light he felt and 

strange. 

Young Rhoecus had a faithful heart 
enough, 

But one that in the present dwelt too 
much. 

And, taking with blithe welcome what- 
soe'er 

Chance gave of joy, was wholly bound 
in that, 

Like the contented peasant of a vale. 

Deemed it the world, and never looked 
beyond. 

So haply meeting in the afternoon 

Some comrades who were playing at 
the dice. 

He joined them, and forgot all else beside. 
67 



#4 Rhoecus 

The dice were rattling at the merri- 
est, 

And Rhoecus, who had met but sorry 
luck, 

Just laughed in triumph at a happy 
throw. 

When through the room there hummed 
a yellow bee 

That buzzed about his ear with down- 
drooped legs 

As if to light. And Rhoecus laughed 
and said. 

Feeling how red and flushed he was 
with loss, 

" By Venus ! does he take me for a 
rose ? " 

And brushed him off with rough, im- 
patient hand. 

But still the bee came back, and thrice 
again, 

68 



Rhcecus ^ 



Rhoecus did beat him off with growing 

wrath. 
Then through the window flew the 

wounded bee, 
And Rhoecus, tracking him with angry 

eyes. 
Saw a sharp mountain-peak of Thessaly 
Against the red disk of the setting 

sun, — 
And instantly the blood sank from his 

heart, 
As if its very walls had caved away. 
Without a word, he turned, and, rush- 
ing forth. 
Ran madly through the city and the gate. 
And o'er the plain, which now the 

wood's long shade. 
By the low sun thrown forward broad 

and dim. 
Darkened well-nigh unto the city's wall. 
69 



^ Rhoecus 



Quite spent and out of breath he 
reached the tree, 

And, listening fearfully, he heard once 
more 

The low voice murmur " Rhoecus ! " 
close at hand ; 

Whereat he looked around him, but 
could see 

Naught but the deepening glooms be- 
neath the oak. 

Then sighed the voice, " O Rhoecus ! 
nevermore 

Shalt thou behold me or by day or 
night, 

Me, who would fain have blessed thee 
with a love 

More ripe and bounteous than ever yet 

Filled up with nectar any mortal heart : 

But thou didst scorn my humble mes- 
senger, 

70 



Rhoecus ^ 

And sent'st him back to me with 

bruised wings, 
We spirits only show to gentle eyes, 
We ever ask an undivided love, 
And he who scorns the least of Nature's 

works 
Is thenceforth exiled and shut out from 

all. 
Farewell ! for thou canst never see me 

more ! " 

Then Rhoecus beat his breast, and 

groaned aloud. 
And cried, " Be pitiful ! forgive me 

yet 
This once, and I shall never need it 

more ? " 
" Alas ! " the voice returned, " 'tis thou 

art blind. 
Not I unmerciful ; I can forgive, 
71 



•^ Rhoecus 

But have no skill to heal thy spirit's 

eyes ; 
Only the soul hath power o'er itself." 
With that again there murmured 

" Nevermore ! " 
And Rhoecus after heard no other 

sound, 
Except the rattling of the oak's crisp 

leaves, 
Like the long surf upon a distant 

shore. 
Raking the sea-worn pebbles up and 

down. 
The night had gathered round him ; 

o'er the plain 
The city sparkled with its thousand 

lights. 
And sounds of revel fell upon his ear 
Harshly and like a curse; above, the 

sky, 

72 



Rhoecus ^ 

With all its bright sublimity of stars, 

Deepened and on his forehead smote 
the breeze : 

Beauty was all around him and de- 
light, 

But from that eve he was alone on 
earth. 

So in our youth we shape out noble 

ends. 
And worship beauty with such earnest 

faith 
As but the young, unwasted heart can 

know. 
And, haply wandering into some good 

deed. 
Win for our souls a moment's sight of 

Truth. 
Then the sly world runs up to us and 

smiles, 

73 



^ Rhoecus 

And takes us by the hand and cries, 

" Well met ! 
Come play with me at dice ; one lucky 

throw, 
And all my power and glory shall be 

thine ; 
Stake but thy heart upon the other 

side ! " 
So we turn gaily in, and by degrees 
Lose all our nature's broad inheri- 
tance, — 
The happiness content with homely 

things, — 
The wise simplicity of honest faith, — 
The unsuspecting gentleness of 

heart, — 
The open-handed grace of Charity, — 
The love of Beauty, and the deathless 

hope 
To be her chosen almoner on earth. 
74 



Rh 



oecus 



And we rise up at last with wrinkled 

brows, 
Most deeply-learned in the hollow 

game 
At which we now have nothing left 

to stake, 
Albeit too wise to stake it, if we had. 

But Truth will never let the heart 
alone 

That once hath sought her, sending 
o'er and o'er 

Her sweet and unreproachful messen- 
gers 

To lure us back again and give us 
all. 

Which we, all fresh and burning in 
the game. 

Wherein we lose and lose with seem- 
ing gain, 

75 



^ Rhoecus 

Brush off Impatiently with sharp re- 
buff, 
Feeling our better instincts now no 

more 
But as reproaches lacking other aim 
Than to abridge our little snatch of 

bliss, 
And, when we rouse at length, and 

feel within 
The stirring of our ancient love 

again. 
Our eyes are blinded that we cannot 

see 
The fair benignity of unveiled Truth 
That plighted us its holy troth ere- 

while 
Our sun is setting. We are just too 

late; 
And so, instead of lightening by our 

lives 

76 



RhcBCus ^ 

The general burden of our drooping 

kind — 
Instead of being named in aftertime 
With grateful reverence as men who 

talked 
With spirits, and the dreaded secret 

wrung 
From out the loath lips of the sphinx 

of life, — 
Instead of being, as all true men may, 
Part of the memory of all great deeds. 
The inspiration of all time to come. 
We linger to our graves with empty 

hearts, 
And add our little handful to the soil 
As valueless and frail as fallen leaves. 



77 



An Indian-summer Reverie 

TTT^HAT visionary tints the 
year puts on, 
When falling leaves falter through 
motionless air 
Or numbly cling and shiver to be 
gone ! 
Hou^ shimmer the lov;' flats and 
pastures bare, 
As with her nectar Hebe Autumn 

fills 
The bov^^l between me and those 
distant hills, 
And smiles and shakes abroad her misty, 
tremulous hair ! 
79 



"^ An Indian-summer Reverie 

No more the landscape holds its 
wealth apart, 
Making me poorer in my poverty, 
But mingles with my senses and 
my heart ; 
My own projected spirit seems to 
me 
In her own reverie the world to 

steep ; 
'Tis she that waves to sympathetic 
sleep, 
Moving, as she is moved, each field 
and hill and tree. 

How fuse and mix, with what 
unfelt degrees. 
Clasped by the faint horizon's lan- 
guid arms. 
Each into each, the hazy dis- 
tances ! 

80 



An Indian-summer Reverie ^ 

The softened season all the land- 
scape charms ; 
Those hills, my native village that 

embay, 
In waves of dreamier purple roll 
away, 
And floating in mirage seem all the 
glimmering farms. 



Far distant sounds the hidden 
chickadee 
Close at my side ; far distant sound 
the leaves ; 
The fields seem fields of dream, 
where Memory 
Wanders like gleaning Ruth ; and 
as the sheaves 
Of wheat and barley wavered in 
the eye 

Si 



"^ An Indian-summer Reverie 

Of Boaz as the maiden's glow- 
went by, 
So tremble and seem remote all things 



th 



e sense receives. 



The cock's shrill trump that tells 
of scattered corn, 
Passed breezily on by all his flapping 
mates. 
Faint and more faint, from barn 
to barn is borne. 
Southward, perhaps to far Magellan's 
Straits ; 
Dimly I catch the throb of distant 

flails -y 
Silently overhead the hen-hawk 
sails, 
With watchful, measuring eye, and for 
his quarry waits. 
82 



An Indian-summer Reverie ^ 

The sobered robin, hunger-silent 
now, 
Seeks cedar-berries blue, his autumn 
cheer ; 
The squirrel, on the shingly shag- 
bark's bough. 
Now saws, now lists with downward 
eye and ear. 
Then drops his nut, and with a 

chipping bound 
Whisks to his winding fastness 
underground; 
The clouds like swans drift down the 
streaming atmosphere. 



O'er yon bare knoll the pointed 
cedar shadows 
Drowse on the crisp, gray moss 3 the 
ploughman's call 
83 



#^ An Indian-summer Reverie 

Creeps faint as smoke from black, 
fresh-furrowed meadows ; 
The single crow a single caw lets fall ; 
And all around me every bush and 

tree 
Says Autumn's here, and Winter 
soon will be, 
Who snows his soft, white sleep and 
silence over all. 

The birch, most shy and ladylike 
of trees. 
Her poverty, as best she may, re- 
trieves. 
And hints at her foregone gentili- 
ties 
With some saved relics of her wealth 
of leaves ; 
The swamp-oak, with his royal 
purple on, 

84 



An Indian-summer Reverie ^ 

Glares red as blood across the 
sinking sun, 
As one who proudlier to a falling for- 
tune cleaves. 



He looks a sachem, in red blanket 
wrapt. 
Who, mid some council of the sad- 
garbed whites. 
Erect and stern, in his own memo- 
ries lapt, 
With distant eye broods over other 
sights. 
Sees the hushed wood the city's 

flare replace. 
The wounded turf heal o'er the 
railway's trace. 
And roams the savage Past of his un- 
dwindled rights. 
85 



^ An Indian-summer Reverie 

The red-oak, softer-grained, yields 
all for lost, 
And, with his crumpled foliage stiff 
and dry. 
After the first betrayal of the 
frost. 
Rebuffs the kiss of the relenting sky ; 
The chestnuts, lavish of their long- 
hid gold. 
To the faint summer, beggared 
now and old. 
Pour back the sunshine hoarded 'neath 
her favouring eye. 

The ash her purple drops forgiv- 
ingly 
And sadly, breaking not the general 
hush ; 
The maple-swamps glow like a 
sunset sea, 

86 



An Indian-summer Reverie 



t=vr 



Each leaf a ripple with its separate 
flush ; 
And round the wood's edge creeps 

the skirting blaze 
Of bushes low, as when on cloudy 
days. 
Ere the rain falls, the cautious farmer 
burns his brush. 



O'er yon low wall, which guards 
one unkempt zone. 
Where vines and weeds and scrub- 
oaks intertwine 
Safe from the plough, whose 
rough, discordant stone 
Is massed to one soft gray by lichens 
fine. 
The tangled blackberry, crossed 
and recrossed, weaves 
87 



-^ An Indian-summer Reverie 

A prickly network of ensanguined 
leaves ; 
Hard by, with coral beads, the prim 
black-alders shine. 



Pillaring with flame this crum- 
bling boundary. 
Whose loose blocks topple 'neath the 
ploughboy's foot, 
Who, with each sense shut fast 
except the eye. 
Creeps close and scares the jay he 
hoped to shoot. 
The woodbine up the elm's 

straight stem aspires. 
Coiling it, harmless, with au- 
tumnal fires ; 
In the ivy's paler blaze the martyr oak 
stands mute. 
88 



An Indian-summer Reverie ^ 

Below, the Charles — a strip of 
nether sky, 
Now hid by rounded apple-trees 
between. 
Whose gaps the misplaced sail 
sweeps bellying by. 
Now flickering golden through a 
woodland screen. 
Then spreading out, at his next 

turn beyond, 
A silver circle like an inland 
pond — 
Slips seaward silently through marshes 
purple and green. 



Dear marshes ! vain to him the 
gift of sight 
Who cannot in their various incomes 
share, 

89 



^ An Indian-summer Reverie 

From every season drawn, of shade 
and light, 
Who sees in them but levels brown 
and bare ; 
Each change of storm or sunshine 

scatters free 
On them its largess of variety. 
For Nature with cheap means still 
works her wonders rare. 

In Spring they lie one broad ex- 
panse of green, 
O'er which the light winds run with 
glimmering feet : 
Here, yellower stripes track out 
the creek unseen, 
There, darker growths o'er hidden 
ditches meet ; 
And purpler stains show where 
the blossoms crowd, 
90 



An Indian-summer Reverie ^ 

As if the silent shadow of a 
cloud 
Hung there becalmed, with the next 
breath to fleet. 



All round, upon the river's slippery 
edge, 
Witching to deeper calm the drowsy 
tide, 
Whispers and leans the breeze- 
entangling sedge; 
Through emerald glooms the linger- 
ing waters slide. 
Or, sometimes wavering, throw 

back the sun. 
And the stiff banks in eddies melt 
and run 
Of dimpling light, and with the current 
seem to glide. 
91 



•^ An Indian-summer Reverie 

In Summer 'tis a blithesome sight 
to see, 
As, step by step, with measured 
swing, they pass, 
The wide-ranked mowers wading 
to the knee. 
Their sharp scythes panting through 
the thick set grass ; 
Then, stretched beneath a rick's 

shade in a ring, 
The'r nooning take, while one 
beo-ins to sing 
A stave that droops and dies 'neath the 
close sky of brass. 



Meanwhile that devil-may-care, 
the bobolink. 
Remembering duty, in mid-quaver 
stops 

92 



An Indian-summer Reverie ^ 

Just ere he sweeps o'er rapture's 
tremulous brink, 
And 'twixt the winrows most de- 
murely drops, 

A decorous bird of business, who 
provides 

For his brown mate and fledglings 
six besides, 
And looks from right to left, a farmer 
mid his crops. 



Another change subdues them in 
the Fall, 
But saddens not ; they still show 
merrier tints. 
Though sober russet seems to 
cover all ; 
When the first sunshine through 
their dew-drops glints, 
93 



#^ An Indian-summer Reverie 

Look how the yellow clearness, 

streamed across, 
Redeems with rarer hues the 

season's loss, 
As Dawn's feet there had touched and 

left their rosy prints. 



Or come when sunset gives its 
freshened zest. 
Lean o'er the bridge and let the 
ruddy thrill. 
While the shorn sun swells down 
the hazy west, 
Glow opposite ; — the marshes drink 
their fill 
And swoon with purple veins, 

then slowly fade 
Through pink to brown, as east- 
ward moves the shade, 
94 



An Indian-summer Reverie ^ 

Lengthening with stealthy creep, of 
Simond's darkening hill. 



Later, and yet ere Winter wholly 
shuts. 
Ere through the first dry snow the 
runner grates. 
And the loath cart-wheel screams 
in slippery ruts, 
While firmer ice the eager boy 
awaits. 
Trying each buckle and strap be- 
side the fire. 
And until bedtime plays with his 
desire. 
Twenty times putting on and off his 
new-bought skates ; — 



95 



-^ An Indian-summer Reverie 

Then, every morn, the river's 

banks shine bright 
With smooth plate-armour, treacher- 
ous and frail. 
By the frost's clinking hammers 

forged at night, 
'Gainst which the lances of the sun 

prevail. 
Giving a pretty emblem of the 

day 
When guiltier arms in light shall 

melt away. 
And states shall move free-limbed, 

loosed from war's cramping 

mail. 

And now those waterfalls the 
ebbing river 
Twice every day creates on either 
side 

96 



An Indian-summer Reverie ^ 

Tinkle, as through their fresh- 
sparred grots they shiver 
In grass-arched channels to the sun 
denied ; 

High flaps in sparkling blue the 
far-heard crow, 

The silvered flats gleam frostily 
below. 
Suddenly drops the gull and breaks the 
glassy tide. 

But crowned in turn by vying 
seasons three, 
Their winter halo hath a fuller ring ; 
This glory seems to rest immov- 
ably, — 
The others were too fleet and vanish- 
ing ; 
When the hid tide is at its high- 
est flow, 

97 



-^ An Indian-summer Reverie 

O'er marsh and stream one breath- 
less trance of snow 
With brooding fulness awes and hushes 
everything. 



The sunshine seems blown off by 
the bleak wind, 
As pale as formal candles lit by 
day; 
Gropes to the sea the river dumb 
and blind ; 
The brown ricks, snow-thatched by 
the storm in play. 
Show pearly breakers combing o'er 

their lee. 
White crests as of some just 
enchanted sea, 
Checked in their maddest leap and 
hanging poised midway. 
98 



An Indian-summer Reverie ^ 

But when the eastern blow, with 
rain aslant, 
From mid-sea's prairies green and 
rolling plains 
Drives in his wallowing herds of 
billows gaunt, 
And the roused Charles remembers 
in his veins 
Old Ocean's blood and snaps his 

gyves of frost. 
That tyrannous silence on the 
shores is tost 
In dreary wreck, and crumbling desola- 
tion reigns. 



Edgewise or flat, in Druid-like 
device, 
With leaden pools between or gullies 
bare, 

99 



^ An Indian-summer Reverie 

The blocks lie strewn, a bleak 

Stoiiehenge of ice ; 
No life, no sound, to break the grim 

despair. 
Save sullen plunge, as through the 

sedges stiff 
Down crackles riverward some 

thaw-sapped cliff. 
Or when the close-wedged fields of ice 

crunch here and there. 

But let me turn from fancy-pic- 
tured scenes 
To that whose pastoral calm before 
me lies : 
Here nothing harsh or rugged in- 
tervenes ; 
The early evening with her misty dyes 
Smooths off the ravelled edges of 
the nigh, 



An Indian-summer Reverie ^ 

Relieves the distant with her 
cooler sky, 
And tones the landscape down, and 
soothes the wearied eyes. 



There gleams my native village, 
dear to me. 
Though higher change's waves each 
day are seen. 
Whelming fields famed in boy- 
hood's history. 
Sanding with houses the diminished 
green ; 
There, in red brick, which soften- 
ing time defies. 
Stand square and stifF the Muses' 
factories ; — 
How with my life knit up is every 
well-known scene ! 

lOI 



^ An Indian-summer Reverie 

Flow on, dear river ! not alone you 
flow 
To outward sight, and through your 
marshes wind; 
Fed from the mystic springs of 
long-ago, 
Your twin flows silent through my 
world of mind : 
Grow dim, dear marshes, in the 

evening's gray ! 
Before my inner sight ye stretch 
away, 
And will for ever, though these fleshly 
eyes grow blind. 



Beyond the hillock's house-be- 
spotted swell. 
Where Gothic chapels house the 
horse and chaise, 

I02 



An Indian-summer Reverie ^ 

Where quiet cits in Grecian tem- 
ples dwell, 
Where Coptic tombs resound with 
prayer and praise, 

Where dust and mud the equal 
year divide, 

There gentle Allston lived, and 
wrought, and died. 
Transfiguring street and shop with his 
illumined gaze. 

Virgilium vidi tantum^ — I have 
seen 
But as a boy, who looks alike on all. 
That misty hair, that fine Undine- 
like mien. 
Tremulous as down to feeling*s 
faintest call ; — 
Ah, dear old homestead ! count it 
to thy fame 
103 



■^ An Indian-summer Reverie 

That thither many times the 
Painter came ; — 
One elm yet bears his name, a feathery 
tree and tall. 



Swiftly the present fades in mem- 
ory's glow, — 
Our only sure possession is the 
past; 
The village blacksmith died a 
month ago. 
And dim to me the forge's roaring 
blast ; 
Soon fire-new mediaevals we shall 

see 
Oust the black smithy from its 
chestnut-tree. 
And that hewn down, perhaps, the 
beehive green and vast. 
104 



An Indian-summer Reverie ^ 

How many times, prouder than 
king on throne, 
Loosed from the village school-dame's 
A's and B's, 
Panting have I the creaky bellows 
blown. 
And watched the pent volcano's red 
increase. 
Then paused to see the ponderous 

sledge, brought down 
By that hard arm voluminous and 
brown. 
From the white iron swarm its golden 
vanishing bees. 



Dear native town ! whose choking 
elms each year 
With eddying dust before their time 
turn gray, 

105 



#? An Indian-summer Reverie 

Pining for rain, — to me thy dust 
is dear ; 
It glorifies the eve of summer day, 
And when the westering sun half 

sunken burns, 
The mote-thick air to deepest 
orange turns, 
The westward horseman rides through 
clouds of gold away. 

So palpable, I've seen those un- 
shorn few. 
The six old willows at the causey's 
end 
(Such trees Paul Potter never 
dreamed nor drew), 
Through this dry mist their checker- 
ing shadows send. 
Striped, here and there, with many 
a long-drawn thread, 
1 06 



An Indian-summer Reverie ^ 



Where streamed through leafy 
chinks the trembling red, 
Past which, in one bright trail, the 
hangbird's flashes blend. 



Yes, dearer far thy dust than all 
that e'er. 
Beneath the awarded crown of vic- 
tory. 
Gilded the blown Olympic chari- 
oteer ; 
Though lightly prized the ribboned 
parchments three, 
Yet collegisse juvat^ I am glad 
That here what colleging was 
mine I had, — 
It linked another tie, dear native town, 
with thee ! 



107 



^ An Indian-summer Reverie 

Nearer art thou than simply native 
earth, 
My dust with thine concedes a deeper 
tie ; 
A closer claim thy soil may well 
put forth, 
Something of kindred more than 
sympathy ; 
For in thy bounds I reverently 

laid away 
That blinding anguish of forsaken 
clay, 
That title I seemed to have in earth 
and sea and sky. 



That portion of my life more 
choice to me 
(Though brief, yet in itself so round 
and whole) 

1 08 



An Indian-summer Reverie ^ 

Than all the imperfect residue can 
be; — 
The Artist saw his statue of the soul 
Was perfect ; so, with one regret- 
ful stroke, 
The earthen model into frag- 
ments broke, 
And without her the impoverished 
seasons roll. 



109 



R 



The Birch-tree 

IPPLING through thy branches 
goes the sunshine, 
Among thy leaves that palpitate for ever, 
Ovid in thee a pining Nymph had 

prisoned. 
The soul once of some tremulous in- 
land river. 
Quivering to tell her woe, but ah ! 
dumb, dumb lor ever ! 

While all the forest, witched with 

slumberous moonshine, 
Holds up its leaves in happy, happy 

silence, 
Waiting the dew, with breath and pulse 

suspended. 



^ The Birch-tree 

I hear afar thy whispering, gleamy 

islands, 
And track thee wakeful still amid the 

wide-hung silence. 

Upon the brink of some wood-nestled 

lakelet. 
Thy foliage, like the tresses of a 

Dryad, 
Dripping round thy slim, white stem, 

whose shadow 
Slopes quivering down the water's 

dusky quiet, 
Thou shrink'st as on her bath's edge 

would some startled Dryad. 

Thou art the go-between of rustic 

lovers ; 
Thy white bark has their secrets in its 

keeping ; 

112 



The Birch-tree ^ 

Reuben writes here the happy name of 

Patience, 
And thy lithe boughs hang murmuring 

and weeping 
Above her, as she steals the mystery 

from thy keeping. 

Thou art to me like my beloved maiden. 

So frankly coy, so full of trembly con- 
fidences ; 

Thy shadow scarce seems shade, thy 
pattering leaflets 

Sprinkle their gathered sunshine o'er 
my senses, 

And Nature gives me all her summer 
confidences. 

Whether my heart with hope or sorrow 
tremble, 

Thou sympathisest still ; wild and un- 
quiet, 

113 



^ The Birch-tree 

I fling me down ; thy ripple, Hke a river, 
Flows valleyward, where calmness is, 

and by it 
My heart is floated down into the land 

of quiet. 



The Changeling 

T HAD a little daughter, 

And she was given to me 
To lead me gently backward 

To the Heavenly Father's knee, 
That I, by the force of nature, 

Might in some dim wise divine 
The depth of his infinite patience 

To this wayward soul of mine. 

I know not how others saw her. 

But to me she was wholly fair. 
And the light of the heaven she came 
from 
Still lingered and gleamed in her hair ; 
For it was as wavy and golden, 
And as many changes took, 
"5 



^ The Changeling 

As the shadows of sun-gilt ripples 
On the yellow bed of a brook. 

To what can I liken her smiling 
Upon me, her kneeling lover, 
How it leaped from her lips to her 
eyelids. 
And dimpled her wholly over, 
Till her outstretched hands smiled 
also. 
And I almost seemed to see 
The very heart of her mother 

Sending sun through her veins to 
me ! 

She had been with us scarce a twelve- 
month. 
And it hardly seemed a day. 
When a troop of wandering angels 
Stole my little daughter away ; 
ii6 



The Changeling ^ 

Or perhaps those heavenly Zingari 
But loosed the hampering strings, 

And when they had opened her cage- 
door, 
My little bird used her wings. 

But they left in her stead a changeling, 

A little angel child. 
That seems like her bud in full blos- 
som, 

And smiles as she never smiled : 
When I wake in the morning, I see it 

Where she always used to lie, 
And I feel as weak as a violet 

Alone 'neath the awful sky. 

As weak, yet as trustful also ; 

For the whole year long I see 
All the wonders of faithful Nature 

Still worked for the love of me ; 
117 



-^ The Changeling 

Winds wander, and dews drip earth- 
ward, 

Rain falls, suns rise and set. 
Earth whirls, and all but to prosper 

A poor little violet. 

This child is not mine as the first was, 

I cannot sing it to rest, 
I cannot lift it up fatherly 

And bliss it upon my breast ; 
Yet it lies in my little one's cradle 

And sits in my little one's chair. 
And the light of the heaven she's gone to 

Transfigures its golden hair. 



To the Dandelion 

T^EAR common flower, that grow'st 

beside the way, 
Fringing the dusty road with harmless 
gold, 
First pledge of blithesome May, 
Which children pluck, and, full of 

pride, uphold, 
High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that 

they 
An Eldorado in the grass have found. 
Which not the rich earth's ample 
round 
May match in wealth — thou art more 

dear to me 
Than all the prouder Summer-blooms 
may be. 

119 



^ To the Dandelion 

Gold such as thine ne'er drew the 
Spanish prow 

Through the primeval hush of Indian 
seas, 
Nor wrinkled the lean brow 

Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease ; 

'Tis the Spring's largess, which she 
scatters now 

To rich and poor alike, with lavish 
hand, 
Though most hearts never under- 
stand 

To take it at God's value, but pass by 

The offered wealth with unrewarded 
eye. 

Thou art my tropics and mine Italy ; 
To look at thee unlocks a warmer 
clime ; 
The eyes thou givest me 
1 20 



To the Dandelion ^ 

Are in the heart and heed not space or 
time : 

Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed 
bee 

Feels a more Summer-like, warm rav- 
ishment 
In the white lily's breezy tent, 

His conquered Sybaris, than I, when 
first 

From the dark green thy yellow circles 
burst. 

Then think I of deep shadows in the 

grass, — 
Of meadows where in sun the cattle 

graze. 
Where as the breezes pass. 
The gleaming rushes lean a thousand 

ways, — 
Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, 

121 



^ To the Dandelion 



Or whiten in the wind, — of waters 

blue 
That from the distance sparkle 

through 
Some woodland gap, — and of a sky 

above 
Where one white cloud like a stray 

lamb doth move. 

My childhood's earliest thoughts are 

linked with thee ; 
The sight of thee calls back the robin's 

song. 
Who from the dark old tree 
Beside the door, sang clearly all day 

long. 
And I, secure in childish piety, 
Listened as if I heard an angel sing 
With news from Heaven, which he 

did bring 

122 



To the Dandelion ^ 

Fresh every day to my untainted ears, 
When birds and flowers and I were 
happy peers. 

How like a prodigal doth nature seem, 

When thou, for all thy gold, so com- 
mon art ! 
Thou teachest me to deem 

More sacredly of every human heart, 

Since each reflects in joy its scanty 
gleam 

Of Heaven, and could some wondrous 
secret show. 
Did we but pay the love we owe. 

And with a child's undoubting wisdom 
look 

On all these living pages of God's 
book. 



123 



The Shepherd of King 
Admetus 

'T^HERE came a youth upon the 
earth, 
Some thousand years ago, 
Whose slender hands were nothing 

worth, 
Whether to plough, or reap, or sow. 

He made a lyre, and drew therefrom 

Music so strange and rich. 
That all men loved to hear, — and some 
Muttered of fagots for a witch. 

But King Admetus, one who had 

Pure taste by right divine. 
Decreed his singing not too bad 
To hear between the cups of wine : 

125 



^ The Shepherd of 

And so, well-pleased with being soothed 

Into a sweet half-sleep, 
Three times his kingly beard he 

smoothed 
And made him viceroy o'er his sheep. 

His words were simple words enough 

And yet he used them so. 
That what in other mouths were rough 
In his seemed musical and low. 

Men called him but a shiftless youth, 

In whom no good they saw ; 
And yet, unwittingly, in truth, 
They made his careless words their law. 

They knew not how he learned at all. 

For, long hour after hour. 
He sat and watched the dead leaves fall. 
Or mused upon a common flower. 
126 



King Admetus ^ 

It seemed the loveliness of things 

Did teach him all their use, 
For, in mere weeds, and stones, and 

springs. 
He found a healing power profuse. 

Men granted that his speech was wise, 

But, when a glance they caught 
Of his slim grace and woman's eyes. 
They laughed, and called him good- 
for-naught. 

Yet after he was dead and gone. 

And e'en his memory dim. 
Earth seemed more sweet to live upon, 
More full of love, because of him. 

And day by day more holy grew 
Each spot where he had trod. 
Till after-poets only knew 
Their firstborn brother as a god. 
127 



An Incident in a Railroad Car 

ILJE spoke of Burns: men rude and 
rough 
Pressed found to hear the praise of 
one 
Whose breast was made of manly, 
simple stuff, 
As homespun as their own. 

And, when he read, they forward leaned 
Drinking, with thirsty hearts and ears, 

His brook-like songs whom glory never 
weaned 
From humble smiles and tears. 

Slowly there grew a tender awe. 
Sunlike o'er faces brown and hard, 
129 



^ An Incident in a 

As if ill him who read they felt and 
saw 
Some presence of the bard. 

It was a sight for sin and wrong, 
And slavish tyranny to see, 

A sight to make oar faith more piae 
and strong 
In high Humanity. 

I thought, these men will carry hence. 
Promptings their former life above, 

And something of a finer reverence 
For beauty, truth, and love. 

(jod scatters love on every side. 
Freely among his children all. 

And always hearts are lying open wide 
Wherein some grains may fall. 
130 



Railroad Car ^ 

There is no wind but soweth seeds 
Of a more true and open life, 

Which burst unlocked for into high- 
souled deeds 
With wayside beauty rife. 

We find within these souls of ours 
Some wild germs of a higher birth, 

Which in the poet's tropic heart bear? 
flowers 
Whose fragrance fills the earth. 

Within the hearts of all men lie 
These promises of wider bliss. 

Which blossom into hopes that cannot 
die. 
In sunny hours like this. 

All that hath been majestical 

In life or death since time began, 
131 



^ An Incident in a 

Is native in the simple heart of all, 
The angel heart of man. 

And thus among the untaught poor 
Great deeds and feelings find a home 

That cast in shadow all the golden lore 
Of classic Greece or Rome. 

Oh ! mighty brother-soul of man, 
Where'er thou art, in low or high, 

Thy skyey arches with exulting span 
O'er-roof infinity. 

All thoughts that mould the age begin 
Deep down within the primitive soul. 

And, from the many, slowly upward 
win 
To One who grasps the whole. 

In his broad breast, the feeling deep 
That struggled on the many's tongue, 
132 



Railroad Car ^ 

Swells to a tide of Thought whose 

surges leap 
O'er the weak thrones of wrong. 

All thought begins in feeling — wide 
In the great mass its base is hid, 

And, narrowing up to thought, stands 
glorified, 
A moveless pyramid. 

Nor is he far astray who deems 

That every hope which rises and 
grows broad 
In the World's heart, by ordered im- 
pulse streams 
From the great heart of God. 

God wills, man hopes ; in common 
souls 
Hope is but vague and undefined, 
^33 



^ An Incident in a 

Till from the poet's tongue the message 
rolls, 
A blessing to his kind. 

Never did poesy appear 

So full of Heav'n to me as when 
I saw how it would pierce through 
pride and fear, 

To the lives of coarsest men. 

It may be glorious to write 

Thoughts that shall glad the two or 
three 
High souls, like those far stars that 
come in sight 
Once in a century. 

But better far it is to speak 

One simple word which now and 
then 

134 



Railroad Car ►# 



Shall waken their free nature in the 
weak 
And friendless sons of men ; 

To write some earnest verse or line 
Which, seeking not the praise of Art, 

Shall make a clearer faith and manhood 
shine 
In the uncultured heart. 

He who doth this, in verse or prose. 
May be forgotten in his day. 

But surely shall be crowned at last with 
those 
Who live and speak for aye. 



135 



A Reverie 

TN the twilight deep and silent 
Comes thy spirit unto mine, 
When the starlight and the moonlight 
Over clifF and woodland shine. 
And the quiver of the river 
Seems a thrill of joy benign. 

Then I rise and go in fancy 
To the headland by the sea, 
When the evening star throbs setting 
Through the dusky cedar-tree. 
And from under, low-voiced thunder 
From the surf swells fitfully. 

Then within my soul I feel thee 
Like a gleam of bygone years, 
Visions of my childhood murmur 
137 



^ A Reverie 

Their old madness in my ears, 
Till the pleasance of thy presence 
Crowds my heart with blissful tears. 

All the wondrous dreams of boyhood — 
All youth's fiery thirst of praise — 
All the surer hopes of manhood 
Blossoming in sadder days — 
Joys that bound me, griefs that crowned 

me 
With a better wreath than bays — 

All the longings after freedom — 
The vague love of human kind. 
Wandering far and near at random 
Like a dead leaf on the wind — 
Rousing only in the lonely 
Twilight of an aimless mind, — 

All of these, oh best beloved. 
Happiest present dreams and past, 
138 



A Reverie ^ 

In thy love find safe fulfilment, 
Ripened into truths at last ; 
P'aith and beauty, hope and duty 
To one centre gather fast. 

How my spirit, like an ocean, 
At the breath of thine awakes, 
Leaps its shores in mad exulting 
And in foamy music breaks. 
Then downsinking, lieth shrinking 
At the tumult that it makes ! 

Blazing Hesperus hath sunken 
Low within the pale-blue west. 
And with blazing splendour crowneth 
The horizon's piny crest ; 
Thoughtful quiet stills the riot 
Of wild longing in my breast. 

Home I loiter through the moonlight. 
Underneath the quivering trees, 
139 



^ A Reverie 

Which, as if a spirit stirred them, 
Sway and bend, till by degrees 
The far surge's murmur merges 
In the rustle of the breeze. 



140 



Summer Storm 

TTNTREMULOUS in the river 
clear, 
Toward the sky's image, hangs the 
imaged bridge ; 
So still the air that I can hear 
The slender clarion of the * unseen 
midge ; 
Out of the stillness, with a gathering 
creep, 
Lilce rising wind in leaves, which now 

decreases, 
Now lulls, now swells, and all the while 
increases. 
The huddling trample of a drove of 
sheep 

141 



^ Summer Storm 

Tilts the loose planks, and then as 
gradually ceases 
In dust on the other side j life's em- 
blem deep, 
A confused noise between two silences, 
Finding at last in dust precarious peace. 
On the wide marsh the purple-blos- 
somed grasses 
Soak up the sunshine ; sleeps the 
brimming tide, 
Save when the wedge-shaped wake in 
silence passes 
Of some slow water-rat, whose 
sinuous glide 
Wavers the long green sedge's shade 

from side to side; 
But up the west, like a rock-shivered 
surge. 
Climbs a great cloud edged with sun- 
whitened spray ; 
142 



Summer Storm ^ 

Huge whirls of foam boil toppling o'er 
its verge, 
And falling still it seems, and yet it 
climbs alway. 

Suddenly all the sky is hid 
As with the shutting of a lid, 
One by one great drops are falling 

Doubtful and slow, 
Down the pane they are crookedly 
crawling 
And the wind breathes low ; 
Slowly the circles widen on the river. 

Widen and mingle, one and all ; 
Here and there the slenderer flowers 
shiver. 
Struck by an icy rain-drop's fall. 

Nowonthe hills I hearthethunder mutter 
The wind is gathering In the west ; 
143 



#^ Summer Storm 

The upturned leaves first whiten and 
flutter, 
Then droop to a fitful rest ; 
Up from the stream with sluggish flap 

Struggles the gull and floats away ; 
Nearer and nearer rolls the thunder- 
clap,— 
We shall not see the sun go down 
to-day : 
Now leaps the wind on the sleepy marsh, 
And tramples the grass with terrified 
feet. 
The startled river turns leaden and 
harsh. 
You can hear the quick heart of the 
tempest beat. 

Look ! look ! that livid flash ! 
And instantly follows the rattling thun- 
der, 

144 



I 

Summer Storm 



As if some cloud-crag split asunder. 

Fell, splintering with a ruinous 
crash, 
On the Earth, which crouches in 
silence under ; 
And now a solid gray wall of rain 
Shuts off the landscape, mile by 
mile; 
For a breath's space I see the blue 
wood again, 
And ere the next heart-beat, the wind- 
hurled pile. 
That seemed but now a league 

aloof. 
Bursts rattling o'er the sun-parched 
roof; 
Against the windows the storm comes 

dashing, 
Through tattered foliage the hail tears 
crashing, 

M5 



^ Summer Storm 

The blue lightning flashes, 

The rapid hail clashes, 
The white waves are tumbling. 

And in one baffled roar, 
Like the toothless sea mumbling 

A rock-bristled shore. 
The thunder is rumbling 
And crashing and crumbling, — 
Will silence return nevermore ? 

Hush ! Still as death, 
The tempest holds his breath 
As from a sudden will ; 
The rain stops short, but from the eaves 
You see it drop, and hear it from the 
leaves, 
All is so bodingly still •, 

Again, now, now, agaiji 
Plashes the rain in heavy gouts, 
The crinkled lightning 
146 



Summer Storm ^ 

Seems ever brightening. 
And loud and long 

Again the thunder shouts 
His battle-song, — 

One quivering flash. 

One wildering crash. 
Followed by silence dead and dull, 

As if the cloud, let go. 

Leapt bodily below 
To whelm the earth in one mad over- 
throw, 

And then a total lull. 

Gone, gone, so soon ! 
No more my half-crazed fancy 

there. 
Can shape a giant in the air. 
No more I see his streaming hair, 
The writhing portent of his form ; — 
The pale and quiet moon 
147 



■^ Summer Storm 

Makes her calm forehead bare, 
And the last fragments of the storm, 
Like shattered rigging from a fight at 

sea. 
Silent and few, are drifting over me. 



THE END. 






